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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28931049">Taking Flight at Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerAnneliese/pseuds/SerAnneliese'>SerAnneliese</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Devil May Cry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Devil May Cry (Manga), Devil May Cry (Novels) - Freeform, Devil May Cry 2 (Game), Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:55:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,470</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28931049</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerAnneliese/pseuds/SerAnneliese</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"She glances at the old papers filling the pages, scoffing at her past remarks. The audacity of youth, she boils it down to, and scans past them to the section of the book reserved for photographs. Here there are several of the island, some taken by travelers and colonizers alike, but most are drawings. She smiles at one in particular of her daughter, Lucia, playing with sea shells in the sand. Her hair is short and disorderly but redder than the clay of the lower mountains, burning almost too intensely against the aged paper. Matier places a finger on the page, careful to not smear the charcoal. Behind it lies a drawing of a small family of four, the parents side by side and their two children each held in place by one parent’s firm hand. Her smile falls back, nostalgia growing too sad to be enjoyable any longer."</p><p>The events of DMC 2 as told by me. (Focus on Dante's mental health as well as the too-often neglected characters of this story. Information and inspiration have been drawn from both the game and the novels/manga.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Dead Brothers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“What’s your problem?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remains silent, feet propped up on the desk. The shop has been dark for hours now, the phone left off the hook and dangling beside the drawer. The sign outside is the only light creeping through the shop’s windows, a faint pink peeking through both the blinds and heavy curtains. It’s also the only sound besides the lazy ceiling fan, fluorescent buzzing a constant companion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, and Trish’s voice, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leans her back against his desk, arms crossed in front of her chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, Dante, if Lady were here, she’d kick your ass into gear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her blonde hair swings when she turns and regards him, eyebrows drawn down in a frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe she’s the only one who really can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still doesn’t respond. He sweeps a hand through his unwashed hair. The amulet in his other hand jingles softly in response to the movement. He looks at it as if it’s burnt him, though, before opening a drawer and tossing it unceremoniously inside. It slams shut with the distinct sound of brass on wood. Trish shakes her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought getting you that would lift this cloud above your head but I guess I was wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rights her weight and plants both hands on the desk across from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Turn on the lights, open the windows, and take a job. I’m telling you this not just because your bill is overdue,” she says, plucking up a red paper then setting it back down. “But because you’re being a real downer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns away from him and makes for the exit. He recrosses his legs loudly and speaks up, throat hoarse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a job, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stops and turns to him, expectant. He nods to a handwritten note beside the phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On Dumary. Someone there says they need my help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She continues to stand. He tuts, legs swinging down to the ground and bouncing to his feet. “It’s a job, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me guess: some powerful megalomaniac is wanting to take over the world. Or, someone’s farming way of life is threatened by demons. Oh! I know! A lawn needs mowing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes and she rolls hers back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t keep doing favors. Favors don’t keep water running. Favors don’t get your name out there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gestures with her hands to count them off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a nag, Dante. But favors don’t bring dead brothers back to life. Nothing will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, she slips out the door, leaving him behind in the dark. He wants to go out and put a hand on her bike, pull her aside and explain that that’s not what he’s trying to do. He settles for launching a mug across the room, watching it hit the wall and virtually disappear into dust upon impact. His head hurts, more so than usual, so he stumbles to the bathroom and throws cold water onto his face. The mirror is clouded over from many long, hot showers not wiped from its surface. He swipes a hand across the reflection and spies, among the water dribbling down his chin, a familiar face. There’s no blue veins there, or ashy, cracked flesh that flakes to the touch. No demonic armor or shining silver amulet. It’s just him, and the ghost of what was, what will never be again. Red joins the white of his hair and the purple around his eyes when fist meets glass in one swift motion, penetrating the silence for the briefest moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Trish slides her phone into her back pocket, exasperated. She plucks the lime from her beer and gulps it down in one swift motion, the glass bottom of the bottle hitting her coaster harder than she intends. The man behind the counter excuses himself from his conversation and makes his way to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything else I can get you?” he asks, thick Northern accent unpleasant on her ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, thanks, little man,” she says, jabbing a thumb to the bar’s wide window. “I’m driving tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whistles, long and in awe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say, that’s a pretty machine. You work on it yourself or someone around here do that for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She crinkles one eye at him mischievously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I take my work seriously, Enzo. I wouldn’t let anyone touch that bike unless it was to tie them to the back of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy now, I ain’t talking about stealing it or nothing,” he replies casually, drinking from a plastic water bottle. Trish notices his choice of drink tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not sampling your own wares?” she asks, plopping the lime slice into her mouth. He shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not doing much of that these days. I’m trimming down, see?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gestures to his round belly and Trish laughs when he is mock-proud of his size.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of not doing much these days, I haven’t seen you around Devil Never Cry. Dante could use the work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shimmies his hand in a so-so fashion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That guy never takes what I offer so I stop offering. Tony Redgrave, Dante Whateverthehell-- his name may change but he never does. I tell him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Dante, mio amico, earn some fucking money and contribute to the betterment of humanity. And your wallet.’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>That shop of his is a goddamn wreck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That shop of ours,” Trish corrects, then scoffs. “We were going to bring on a third partner, but Lady ran off to be an arms dealer after Dante and I changed the shop’s name. Some people are just petty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t say I blame her. The name change does sort of suck. But the business, when he’ll take it, is good. Lots of demons need killing around here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She eyes him and his eyebrows draw downwards in disapproval.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Devil Never Cry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s personal, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geez, alright, alright. I’m just saying it don’t flow as well. Besides, where’d yous get the money to change it in the directory and everything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She peels the rind from her lips and folds it into her napkin, plucking her jacket from the stool beside her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you see Morrisson, tell him to get Dante off his ass. I can’t stand being in the shop when he’s down like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dante? Down? I’ve known him to be a loner but never down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enzo seems genuinely baffled, thick hands shoved into his pockets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something to do with that last job he took?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trish shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t talk about it much. What do you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enzo thumbs the counter, eyes averted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y’know, things travel around a place like this. I don’t know what’s true and what ain’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes a step closer to him, and when she leans in he leans back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You hear anyone talking, you give them a boot to the ass. Can you do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods furiously, adjusting the cap on his head. She pats his cheek once and makes for the exit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trish, your tab!” he calls out. She can see him waving a receipt in the reflection of the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Put in on Dante’s account!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know he… but he never… ahh!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The receipt hits the counter as the doorbell chimes to signal a customer’s exit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rain comes later that night when Trish finishes her errands. She sweeps her hair into a messy bun and stuffs it as far under her helmet as she can, cool metal of her jacket zipper hitting her skin when she bundles up. Rain always did look good on leather, and leather looks good on Trish. She speeds down the highway of the downtown city, goading other motorcyclists and regular drivers alike into racing. At one point she spies flashing red and blue in her rearview and speeds down a thin alleyway, the sound of sirens fading in with the industrial background noise and the open sky. She reaches Devil Never Cry in record time, ramping her bike up on the sidewalk and making to unlock the garage door. There’s a light on inside the shop so she stops, trying to peek past the blinds first before opening the thick wooden doors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dante?” she calls out. She gives a cursory glance back at her bike-- it will be safe under the awning for now-- and shuts the front door behind her. It’s still quiet inside, the floorboards creaking under her weight and squeak of the fan above piercing the solitude. The tall lamp in the corner is sitting on but the lights upstairs and in the bathroom are off. The jukebox in the corner blinks lazily, waiting for its next request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She steps over to Dante’s desk and pulls open the drawer where he stowed his faux amulet. It sits empty save for a few wrappers. She shuts it and checks the rest, rifling through piles of nonsense before sighing and sitting in the worn chair. Beside the phone sits the same handwritten note, along with a torn scrap of paper bearing Dante’s illegible mess. She picks up his note and reads it under her breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>gone for job. keep shop open for me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smacks her lips, tossing it aside and examining the correspondence. The paper smells fragrant, she notices, and wonders where it’s from. The scent is like seaside grass and fresh herbs. So not like the city. The paper crinkles between her fingers when she straightens it out from its neat folds and reads the dark ink there, marvelling at the penmanship.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My dear boy, I know many years have passed since your father last walked this earth, but his legacy lives on in you. I must ask that you take up his mantle and travel to help those in need of his might, so that we humans may live in peace, away from the demons of the underworld. Like the Qliphoth roots which take the life of everything they touch, demons too steal the lifeforce of those around them, maiming and tricking at whatever cost. And for what? Your father knew the answer to this, and yet we may ask him as we ask the stars above to deliver us from the trespasses of those who would seek to do us harm. The dead do not speak the same tongue we do but doubt never their influence on our waking life. For if the dead do not supply us motivation, what meaning have we? I tell you this in hopes you will meet with my family, and further discuss how to once again save humanity from the vices of sin and temptation. You bloom where you are planted, dear boy, but those plants whose seeds never travel are soon left to memory, never to rise from the ground again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Matier</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Vie de Marli</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Vie de Marli?” she asks aloud, slipping her phone from her pocket. As she turns on the display a notification for an incoming call lights it up. She answers and swings it to her ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lady?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Check your caller ID,” the woman responds from the other end. Trish rolls her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, where are you? I need you here at the shop. It’s Dante.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about Dante?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her tone is dismissive, as always.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last I checked, he can handle himself. You and him had plenty of fun changing the name and layout of the shop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not the point. Dante’s gone and I need someone to help run this place after he’s run it into the ground.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where did he go?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” she answers truthfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He must’ve left a note or something. He doesn’t always disappear without telling someone first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trish picks up the note again and stares at the signature. Matier. Vie di Marli.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nevermind,” she says, finger finding the end-call button.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean ‘nevermind’?” Lady retorts. “You’re the one asking me for a favor and I want that debt over your head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean what I said. I don’t need you here. Not yet, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever. Call me when you actually need work done. Or better yet, have Dante do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The call goes dead before she can hit the button herself. She begins to throw it but thinks better, knowing that a lack of communication is the last thing the shop needs. Speaking of, she hangs the landline up into its cradle and clicks her cell back to life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes some digging but her search for Vi de Marli returns some small bits of information. Not much is known about the small island near the Mediterranean; the natives are hostile to outsiders and those who aren’t are reluctant to speak. Modern atlases refer to it as Dumary, whereas Vi de Marli is the original name before colonization and modern political borders. That makes sense. The person who wrote this letter must be old, or at least very traditional, judging by the practiced script and usage of obsolete namesakes. And the smells she caught from the paper would corroborate its origin: Dumary is an island known for self-sufficient farmers and sharecroppers. She leans back in the chair and can’t help but chuckle, tossing her sunglasses onto the heavy desk and putting her feet up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not only does the world need saving, but a little old lady needs help protecting her lawn from demons. Two out of three is a passing score in her book.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Two Sides</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dumary is, despite being an island, still bigger than most cities in Dante’s home country. Bigger than most other nations in the world, he reckons. And the return address didn’t come from any discernible location on the island. He makes a sharp left on his bike, engine purring steadily beneath him. The large museum on the other side of town would be a good place to start, then, if he’s going to deduce his way to saving the human world from demon invasion. Again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The road is slick from the earlier rain but that doesn’t slow him down. He easily takes corners and ramps, mind running on autopilot to find the correct streets. After almost an hour of driving, he finds the old building tucked in between an abandoned complex and a steel-making business. The sign outside says they closed at 8.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dante finds his way around the side of the building and jumps to reach the fire ladder, pulling it down and scaling it before it rises back up out of reach. He balances along the lip of the roof, ignoring the spacy patio and walking trail built beside him. There’s a commotion above him and he looks up in time to see several pairs of flying demons break through a window facing the street and rain down into the museum. Well, that solves his question of how to get inside past hours. He draws his guns and beats it to the skylight, the glass giving noisily beneath his weight. All the lights are off but the moon flooding in through the broken windows tell him what he needs to know. Six assailants, one possible ally. He takes out five of them in a sequence while falling, flipping himself to his feet before solidly landing on the red carpet lining the showroom. When he looks up, a coin is rolling his way, turning on its side and landing unsteadily by his boot. A woman dressed in a white serape and grey pants stares at him from across the room. He plucks the coin from the ground and stands upright, gun drawn and safety turned off. She readies a long, carved knife to retaliate but his trigger hand is quicker. It pierces the heart of the last demon, dropping to the ground like a hammer. The woman looks at it, looks at her knife, then sticks it back into its holder by her side. They meet eyes and Dante knows she’s there for the same reason as him. He crosses the room, eyes still trained on hers, and stops a few feet ahead. He flicks the old coin at her and she catches it, reflexes quick, and examines it in her palm. He decides to speak first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You called?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of returning the greeting, she waltzes past him, making a swift turn and chunking a knife at a fixture. She eyes him with conviction before disappearing up a flight of dark stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘til next time, Son of Sparda.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t watch after her, just observes where her throwing knife landed. It’s stuck into an old map, set against a pillar in what was a heavy frame, and marks a section of Dumary Island in the lower, Western half. Cryptic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s right on the coast, probably no more than a few hundred feet from the swallowing ocean. He yanks the knife from the frame and tucks it into in a leather utility pouch for later, peeling the cut section of the map from the wall and trying to push it back together. In fine detail he can see the name of an isolated village. This lady must really know her geography.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That helps, though. If he were bothered enough to care, this whole situation reeks of suspicion. A mysterious letter, a museum break-in and theft, massive property damage? What a day already. Whoever is hosting this party better at least put him up in their house because he didn’t bring enough money for rent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns the safety back on his pistols and tucks them away. He reaches into his coat pocket and fishes out the keys to his bike, already thinking of the nearest, and cheapest, international travel agency. Preferably someone under the table, because something tells him that island won’t be hosting a big hula welcome when he arrives. No one ever does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the island Vie di Marli, tucked into a seaside cottage, Matier stirs an iron pot full of vegetables and herbs with a long ladle. She uses </span>
  <em>
    <span>il cucchiaino</span>
  </em>
  <span> to taste the simmering broth, seasoned lips detecting too little salt. She sprinkles some in with her fingers, setting the old clay bowl back atop the fireplace before having a seat. The draft isn’t as chilly today. She can walk about the house without having to wear her shawl, and even gets too warm near the fire sometimes. An old book from her shelf sings to her so she stands from her stool and gingerly pulls it from the dust, blowing away the greyness into a corner. She settles herself back into her seat, wooden stool worn from years of comfortable cooking, and opens the volume up in her lap. It creaks from non-usage and very well threatens to fall apart in her lap. She glances at the old papers filling the pages, scoffing at her past remarks. The audacity of youth, she boils it down to, and scans past them to the section of the book reserved for photographs. Here there are several of the island, some taken by travelers and colonizers alike, but most are drawings. She smiles at one in particular of her daughter, Lucia, playing with sea shells in the sand. Her hair is short and disorderly but redder than the clay of the lower mountains, burning almost too intensely against the aged paper. Matier places a finger on the page, careful to not smear the charcoal. Behind it lies a drawing of a small family of four, the parents side by side and their two children each held in place by one parent’s firm hand. Her smile falls back, nostalgia growing too sad to be enjoyable any longer. The family stares back at her with deep, blue eyes, some dark and others light. When she made this drawing, it was months before she found the right clay to make into the shade of their irises. They were the final touch she needed to finish, and before she did it seemed like an eternity had passed since they last set foot on the island. But when she revisited the dark, neat lines forming the family portrait, it all came back like a rush of oxygen. Matier remembers, vividly, her young hands shaking as she pencilled in the final touches to the father and children’s eyes. For the mother’s she used a derivative of the salty grass that grows down near the caves. Her husband always described her as a being of infinite patience and love, with moss-colored eyes gentle enough to chase away any sorrow. Of his sorrows, she knew not. The irreparable ones, at least. But for a man of that caliber to find understanding in a woman of the human world, Matier knew she had to be special.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her wizened eyes find that of the eldest child, positioned at the father’s feet, and stay there until the lines begin to blur together. What remains are the stark, cloudless blues of his eyes that make her grab her shawl from the hanging rack and tie it around her shoulders.</span>
</p>
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